


Everything Changes (Except Oz)

by Cyn



Category: L Frank Baum - The Oz series
Genre: F/M, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2007, recipient:sweetestdrain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-25
Updated: 2007-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-21 19:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyn/pseuds/Cyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time is everything and nothing, especially in Oz.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything Changes (Except Oz)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetestdrain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetestdrain/gifts).



"It's been ten years," the Scarecrow says, startling Dorothy out of her reverie. She jerks her head up, straightening and looking around wildly, until her eyes fall on the Scarecrow.

"Ten years since what?" Dorothy asks, the confusion obvious on her face. There are a number of important dates she remembers - birthdays and holidays and so many others, but none seem particularly relevant now.

If the Scarecrow could smile even wider, he would be doing so. The confusion flickers across Dorothy's face as she struggles to remember, and he remains silent for a moment or three, letting her work out the date for herself. It's better this way, letting her realize it on her own.

"It's been ten years since we saved the Queen of Ev?" she asks, then quickly shakes her head. "No, no, that's not it. Billina's not that old - since Ozma became Queen?" Dorothy continues, hopeful but hesitant. "But we would have a celebration for that, I'd imagine. Ten years since you were king-"

Dorothy doesn't finish her comment. The answer is obvious and right in front of her eyes, she realizes, as she stares at the Scarecrow. He's tapping his forehead. Her eyes light up as she grins at the Scarecrow.

"Ten years since I first came to Oz."

Dorothy launches herself into the arms of the Scarecrow. Expecting her hug, he braces his soft body as firmly as he can, so they don't topple over when she clings to him.

"This is the most important day of them all," she tells the Scarecrow. "If that twister hadn't blown me in, well-"

"Life would be quite different for all of us," the Scarecrow offers, cutting her off. "We do not know how it would have turned out, and it's best not to think about those things; the possibilities are too numerous and we'll never have answers."

"You're right," Dorothy agrees, and releases the Scarecrow's neck. "We should celebrate today. And every year from here on out."

"The day is almost over," is the Scarecrow's response, and he points up, where the sun is setting, turning the sky dark blue. Dorothy imagines a few stars would have been visible, low in the Eastern sky, if the walls of the palace and the lights of the city didn't block them out. "And we've both promised to dine with Ozma."

"Next year, then," Dorothy says. "Next year we will celebrate."

"But eleven isn't an important number." The Scarecrow is glad of his fixed expression, for it makes the laughter he can feel teasing his mind all the easier to hide.

"Well, fine," Dorothy says, and if she were anyone else, the Scarecrow imagines she'd stomp her foot and pout - maybe. "The fifteenth year. We'll do something."

The Scarecrow finally laughs at that. A moment later, Dorothy joins in.

-

"I know you never age," Dorothy begins, as she stares at Ozma's magic picture. It only shows the fields outside the palace, empty and brilliantly green, because she isn't thinking of anyone in particular. Ozma is sprawled across her bed, undignified in the way she can only be around Dorothy. "Unless you want to. But what about mortals in Oz?"

Ozma looks up sharply. The question is not something casual to ask, not coming from Dorothy, the second mortal person who found Oz.

"I don't know." She sits up, no longer the childish girl she had been before, or even the princess she is during the day, but a concerned friend: Dorothy is her closest friend, and the sudden thought of mortality affecting the other girl isn't a comforting one. Ozma has aged, will age, for a few more years. She wishes every year, on her birthday, to gain a little more wisdom, a little more experience, but she knows she can stop aging at any point, will stop - it's one of the advantages of being part of Oz. But for the mortals in her kingdom, she doesn't how time will touch them.

"We can ask Glinda," Ozma offers. "She should know, or be able to provide a little more insight into it." To her eyes, Dorothy already looks a little older than when she ended up in Oz, permanently. Not any older than Ozma herself, but older than Dorothy had been, and that is frightening enough. "We should visit her tomorrow."

Dorothy pulls her eyes away from the glass, and grins at her friend. "We haven't seen Glinda in a while, so it'll be nice to visit her. Should we invite anyone else?"

It doesn't even need a second thought. Ozma shakes her head as soon as the words leave Dorothy's mouth. "No, it'll just be us. We'll take the Sawhorse and ride in the chariot, and spend a few days with Glinda."

Dorothy smiles and hugs her friend; not her first friend, but not the least of her friends, either. The reason for the trip is already being pushed back in her mind, for Dorothy isn't one to worry too much about the intangibles. It will be a pleasant trip, and they haven't seen Glinda in a while, Glinda who was the first to really help Dorothy in Oz.

The morning dawns bright and glorious, and although both Dorothy and Ozma are yawning and still rubbing sleep from their eyes when they meet in front of the palace, the Sawhorse already attached to the chariot, there is excitement in the air.

"Be safe on your journey," the Wizard instructs, silly words for a parting in a land where no harm befalls anyone, but wise for all that. Dorothy and Ozma both attract trouble and mischief like the flowers in the fields attract bees. "Tell Glinda I said hello."

The Wizard isn't the only one to see them off; there is Jack Pumpkinhead and Professor Wogglebug, both visiting the royal city, and a few others. Ozma and Dorothy leave, waving to their friends.

In spite of, or perhaps because of, the Wizard's words, the girls reach Glinda's palace in record time, with no mischief befalling them.

-

Glinda knows why they are there, both of them know that. Still, she waits for one or the other to speak. Dorothy glances to Ozma, and to Glinda, and back to Ozma, and finally breaks the silence.

"Do mortal people in Oz age?" Dorothy asks. "I know Ozma and you and none of the others'll get old, but what about the Wizard? And Betsy and Trot and Aunt Em and Uncle Henry?"

"And Dorothy," Ozma adds.

"I have been expecting that question for a long time," Glinda tells her, and moves from her throne to take Dorothy's hands. "Death is not part of Oz, unless someone is terribly evil, and even then they do not die in the ways of mortals. But you cannot deny your own mortality, for nature is the most powerful of magic." She kisses Dorothy's forehead, smiling down at her. "It's one year for every ten; and death will eventually come for all of those who live here, but not for a while yet."

"Aunt Em and Uncle Henry-" Dorothy begins, but even she can hear the tremble in her voice. She bites down on her lip, fearing to continue.

"Are old, but not too old. And well-cared for, loved. Ten years is a long time, remember."

"Not _that_ long," Dorothy says, with a laugh, light and slightly nervous. It was just the other day that the Scarecrow had reminded her of the ten years since she first came to Oz and she still can't believe it. Ten years does not feel like ten years.

"We can't fight death," Ozma says, staring intently at Dorothy. "But could you prolong it, Glinda? Instead of one year for every ten, how about one year for every twenty?"

"There are still things I cannot do, my dear," Glinda tells her. "Something like that is beyond my grasp. But there are magicians and sorcerers outside of Oz who might know."

Ozma's eyes light up, and she smiles, that smile that makes Dorothy realize she will never fully understand the mind of the girl who rules Oz.

-

"Princess Dorothy." Jellia Jamb, Ozma's favorite maid, stands in the middle of Dorothy's sitting room, looking down at the small girl. "Princess Ozma requests you in the royal throne room. Another magician has arrived."

It has become common in the past years: Dorothy meets Jellia in her rooms and is given instructions to see Ozma in the throne room. For a new magician, or a new wizard, or sorcerer, or a few times, witches and sorceresses, each alleging that they could prolong the lives of the mortals in Oz. One had claimed to be able to stop death altogether, but even Ozma refused him. To completely change nature was against everything in Oz, and would require the darkest magic, a magic that would cast a shadow over their bright world.

"How will we know if it works?" Dorothy asks, after reaching the throne room where Ozma waits. This time she is with the Wizard and Glinda, the Scarewcrow and Nick Chopper and one figure she doesn't recognize: a small old man. He is dressed in a most amusing way: a shirt of bright yellow, a vest of green, no coat, knee trousers in purple, mismatched hose, and two left shoes. On his head there is a tall, pointy hat, the type the old witches wore, except his is bright blue. As Dorothy stares at it, two eyes blink from the middle of the hat, and the brim opens up, revealing sharp teeth and a red tongue as the hat yawns.

"Glinda says she can tell, there have been no changes made yet," Ozma tells her. "Dorothy, this is Mr. M. A. Droit, of Roitsland. He claims he knows the secret to aging, or not aging. Mr. Droit, Princess Dorothy of Oz."

The magician grins at Dorothy, displaying a gap-toothed grin. He moves away from the crowd to shake her hand, only to trip over his feet, sprawling across the floor. As everyone watches, the hat extends two arms, from just beneath the brim, and catches itself before it too goes sprawling.

"Really, Mal," it complains, shooting what Dorothy thinks is a glare at the magician. "I told you to change your shoes before you left, but did you listen to me?" The hat walks away, heading for a corner of the throne room, grumbling to itself.

"Ignore him," the magician says, hopping to his feet, looking none the worse for his tumble. He frowns at his shoes. "Ah, there is nothing I can do for my shoes now. The important thing is that I'm here!"

"We shall get you new shoes," Ozma says, "for tripping all the time wouldn't be a good thing."

"Thank you, thank you." The magician doesn't look at Ozma, but studies Dorothy, 'hmm'-ing to himself. He once reaches out to measure the length of Dorothy's arm, which makes her laugh: the magician places a hand at her shoulder, and draws his other hand down the length of her arm, pulls back to reveal a measuring tape.

"What do you need that for?" the Wizard asks, wondering about this magician and his peculiarities. There's no reason that he can think of for the length of a girl's arm to be important.

"There is a potion I'll need to brew, and this tells me how much of it I'll need," returns Mr. Droit, waving the tape measure absently. "Unfortunately, I don't have enough of one of the ingredients I will require-"

"I told you to bring all of your stores," the hat yells, from across the room. "You should listen to me; I spend all day on top of your head. I know your mind better than you do."

"That is true, that is true." The magician sighs. "I will listen to you next time, I will. It will take a month for me to grow the ingredient I'll need."

"Take your time," Ozma tells him, but Dorothy steps forward, shaking her head. "The Scarecrow and I wanted to take a trip in a few weeks."

"It can wait, Dorothy," the Scarecrow offers. "We can go next year."

"But sixteen isn't as important as fifteen!"

"Then we'll go at twenty. Twenty is even more important than fifteen." Dorothy bites down on her lip, thinking for a second, and then nods in agreement. Five years go by quickly, in a place like Oz.

"It's settled," Ozma says, and before anyone realizes it, they are caught up in a flurry of activity, showing the magician to his rooms, very near the Wizard's quarters, preparing a welcoming banquet for the visitor, and tracking down the other important persons of Oz.

-

"It's been fifteen years," the Scarecrow says, and Dorothy is expecting it this time, not surprised by his words and not lost in thought. They are sitting together in her sitting room.

"It feels like so much longer than fifteen years." Dorothy smiles, thinking back over the adventures they've had, together, alone, with others: too many to fit into just fifteen years. But the most important will always be that first adventure. Dorothy's eyes light up as she thinks of something. "When we celebrate, in five years, we should retrace our journey to the Emerald City."

"I think," the Scarecrow responds, "that your idea is the best one in the world. I wish my brains were so good that I could have thought of something like that."

"You would have, eventually." Dorothy reaches out to pat his shoulder, careful not to warp the Scarecrow out of shape. "Your brains are the best in Oz."

-

"It's ready!"

The shout is heard all through the palace, followed by a crash. The ones closest to the magician's chambers go running, only to find the magician once again sprawled across the floor, the hat scolding him. It's a common sight in the palace, normally amusing, but disappointing this time. Surrounding him, in steaming pools, lies the potion he had spent the month working on.

"Oh dear, oh dear," Mr. Droit exclaims, pushing his body off the floor and looking around. "It's all ruined."

"How long will it take you to make a new one?" the Wizard asks, in lieu of Ozma, who isn't there.

"Oh a year, a year! So long, all of my headwork gone!" The magician looks ready to weep. Dorothy walks over to him, to place an arm around his shoulders. They are of the same height, it is easy to comfort him. "Don't worry too much about it. We'll all help you collect the things you need."

"Oh no, oh no! No need to collect anything, it all grows from the ground and I can replant! Yes, yes, replant!"

"But the seeds for most of them are in Roitsland," the hat snaps. "That's a journey there and back and a year for everything to grow. And six months for the potion to fully be ready. Two years!"

The magician looks more and more dejected as the hat speaks, shrinking into himself. "Two years, two years. Such a long, long time."

"Two years is nothing in Oz," Dorothy reassures him. "And I am in no rush. You can start on the journey back home tomorrow, and come back straight away. The Wizard might even be able to help you find a way to get there quickly."

"No, no." The magician sighs. "Roitsland changes place from time to time, only the inhabitants know how to get there, and I shall have to make the journey alone, all alone, walking, walking. But it will not take me that long, and I shall return, return soon!"

The magician leaves the following morning, the correct shoes on his feet and the hat clinging to his head. Ozma watches him depart with a frown that she turns on Dorothy when Mr. Droit is no longer in sight. "You and the Scarecrow missed your celebration for nothing."

"It's okay," Dorothy tells her. "We thought of something better to do next time."

-

Ozma isn't the only one who keeps record of the time the magician is gone. The journey, he told them, there and back, would take six months. Precisely six months and one day after the day he left, the magician shows up. He is escorted through the city in a joyful procession, the residents of the royal city cheering, unsure of what his purposes in Oz were, but knowledgeable enough to suspect something of great importance.

"A year, a year," he tells Ozma, once he is back in the palace. "A year to grow. And six months for the potion to be ready. Six months."

"In a year and six months, we will test this out," Ozma says. "Thank you, Mr. Droit, for all of your hard work."

"To serve my fellow... fellow... friends... is a joy! Yes, yes, a joy!" The magician smiles all around, the hat glaring from his head, and trots off to his rooms before anyone can provide a response.

"We shall have to celebrate if it works," Ozma whispers to Dorothy.

-

"Nick Chopper won't be able to make it," the Scarecrow announces, sadly, a year and a half later, to his friends who are gathered in the throne room. "He is overseeing the rebuilding of a wing of his castle. But he says he will make it to the celebration, if we have one." The Scarecrow, and the Tin Woodman, and the Cowardly Lion, along with the Wizard and Glinda, had all been invited to witness the magician's work - Dorothy's first friends from Oz. All of them are in the throne room, with the single exception of the Tin Woodman.

They move from the throne room to the magician's rooms, rather than risk him bringing it to them. They don't want another mishap, like the previous time. The magician hands Dorothy a glass containing a pale blue liquid that smells sweetly of violets.

"Drink, drink! It will not harm you and is necessary for this." Already the magician turns away, trusting her to drink. He flips through a book, finally landing upon a page.

Dorothy drinks and the magician begins to mumble words under his breath, nothing anyone can hear. He finishes when Dorothy drinks the last drop and looks at her, expecting something. It is easy to see that he is waiting for something.

"That tasted weird," Dorothy says, her voice growing faint, and there is a popping noise from somewhere around her, but she doesn't pay attention to it. A blackness starts to seep along the edge of her consciousness and before she realizes it, the ground is racing up to meet her.

The Wizard catches her, looking around in horror. Dorothy, unconscious in his arms, and the Scarecrow, stretched out on the floor, completely human.

"Oh dear," the magician says. "Oh dear, oh dear."

"Wrong chant, that one. Should have woken me up so I could tell you that," the hat says, from the table.

-

Dorothy wakes up sometime later, in her own canopied bed in the palace. The Wizard is sitting in a chair next to her bed, and his presence unsettles her even as it keeps her from leaping up from the bed and running to find someone.

"What happened?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. It hurts to talk, she realizes, and as she realizes it, the Wizard is there with a glass of water, pressing it into her hand.

"Glinda says the potion has worked, and you will age far slower than the rest of us mortals in Oz." He pauses. "Mr. Droit asked me if I wanted to try it, but I said no thanks. I? will take my one year in every ten."

"The potion didn't taste too bad," Dorothy tells him. "I don't know why I fainted. And what was that popping noise?"

"Ah." The Wizard tugs at his collar, and Dorothy sees in him the old humbug that he was when they first met, not the Wonderful Wizard of Oz he's become. "The magician can't explain why you fainted, and he accidentally used the wrong chant. Turns out he didn't even need to use one."

"Nothing else happened?" Dorothy asks, confusion evident on her face. She can tell there is something, but doesn't know what.

"The Scarecrow...." The Wizard trails off uncomfortably, shifting in his seat. Dorothy scrambles up from her place on the bed, almost tumbling off, unable to find any strength in her legs. "Is he okay?"

"You are going to be weak for a few days, my dear," the Wizard cautions, gently guiding her back to lying down. "It's just one of the side effects, you'll be fine in a few days."

"But what about the Scarecrow?" she demands; everything that has happened to her is unimportant - she worries now for her friend.

"He's fine. Just." The Wizard bites down on his lip and sighs, a great big sigh. "He's human now."

-

The Scarecrow stares at his hands, flexing them. He watches with amazement as the joints work and his fingers curl in and out. There are no longer gloves covering his fingers, no more straw stuffing the gloves and poking out from the gloves. Just fingers, pale with lack of sun, his own, human fingers.

It is amazing, he thinks, and curls them in again, until the pads of his fingers touch his palms.

"Scarecrow!" he hears from the door, Dorothy's voice, and looks up, happiness crossing his features in a way that it never has before.

"Dorothy," he exclaims, and before he realizes it, the girl is flinging herself into his arms, a normal action for her. But his balance is off, completely different than before, and her hug sends them toppling to the ground. The Scarecrow hits his shoulder against the soft carpet, which is still firm enough to hurt.

"Ow," he says, and shifts, trying to find a more comfortable position, unwilling to let go of Dorothy. She laughs and pulls away.

"I'm sorry," she tells him, standing up and offering her hand to him. She helps him up, and trails her fingers up his arm, clothed with a shirt of fine linen. "I didn't think that you'd hurt like a normal person now." The Scarecrow feels a shiver run down his spine and something odd settle into his belly as she runs her hand in wonder up his arm and over his shoulder and back down.

"You don't feel like the Scarecrow, anymore," she tells him, looking up at his face, which is not that of the Scarecrow's, either. It is mutable and emotions flicker across it as they never did before.

"My brain is still the same," he assures her. "I'm still the Scarecrow.

Dorothy laughs at that, at his instance of still being the same, as long as his brains where there, and hugs him. But there is a hint of something troubled about his voice, nervousness that he is not.

"You're still my Scarecrow," she tells him, and hugs him again. His arms wrap around her and he holds her close.

"Can you walk?" she asks, although her voice is muffled against his chest. "And eat? And dress yourself?"

"I am unsteady," he tells her, "and trying to get used to the rest of it. Eating and sleeping and dressing oneself in different clothes everyday - it is all hard to get used to. I have already gotten a cut, when I accidentally scraped my arm against the side of my door." He removes his arm from around Dorothy and pulls up his sleeve, showing her a small scrape.

"You must be careful," Dorothy tells him. "We're going to have to start watching out for you."

-

"Mr. Droit says he can fix up something that will change you back to your original shape," the Wizard announces, weeks later. "It has taken Mr. Droit, Glinda, and myself to discover the antidote, but it can be done."

The Scarecrow lights up immediately, because although enough time has gone by that he is settling into his body with less and less mishaps, he still misses his old form. Sleep takes too much time and although food is good, it still seems silly to him. And his brain has to concentrate a little more about human matters, and that means less time thinking. "When can we do it?" he asks.

"It is too a potion, and will take some time." The Wizard looks at the Scarecrow, almost unhappily, but still kindly, encouragingly. "Three years from now, it should be ready."

"Three years?" The Scarecrow exclaims, the disappointment obvious on his face. "That's such a long time."

"Three years is nothing in Oz," Dorothy tells him, before the Wizard can say anything. "And it will be just after our trip."

"It will be just like old times," the Scarecrow says, after a moment's thought. "But instead of seeking the Wizard for a brain, I'll be seeking the magician."

-

"The Sawhorse will drop you off at the beginning of the yellow brick road, in Munchkin land." Ozma pauses and glances at Dorothy. "Are you sure you don't want to keep the Sawhorse as you travel?"

"Yep," Dorothy insists. "It's just going to be the Scarecrow and me. We want to retrace our steps of our first journey."

"It would make sense to invite the Tin Woodman and the Cowardly Lion, then."

"We've always planned it for just the two of us." Dorothy finishes packing the picnic basket that she was determined to carry with her. "We were the first to meet, and it feels fitting that we go on this together. It will be an adventure."

"I hope you two have fun," Ozma tells her, and hugs her friend quickly. The Scarecrow is at the door, and behind him, Ozma sees the Sawhorse. It's time for them to go.

"Run as swiftly as you can," the Scarecrow tells the Sawhorse, as he and Dorothy settle into the Red Wagon he is hitched to, "we want to be there soon."

Dorothy clutches her bonnet to her head and the picnic basket to her chest as the Sawhorse takes off. The scenery blurs before her eyes, and she hears the Scarecrow laugh as the wind rushes past them.

It doesn't take long for the Sawhorse to arrive in that first spot where Dorothy landed, a small village whose inhabitants greet her cheerfully. She's always been greatly loved throughout Oz, but nowhere more than Munchkin land. News of the Scarecrow's change long since reached the edges of Oz, and people are awaiting them, with a feast, before seeing them off.

-

"Your field was the third one I passed, the first crossroads," Dorothy tells the Scarecrow, her arm linked with his as they walk the carefully maintained road. In many parts of Oz, the road is in disrepair, but the path they walk is one of the most frequently traveled and the people keep it in good shape.

"And we took the path to the left," the Scarecrow tells her. "I remember the path we took."

"I wonder if the forest will still be as bad as it was, twenty years ago."

Remembering the forest they once traversed through, the Scarecrow frowns. "I haven't heard anything of it recently, but that does not mean it isn't still wild. We'll have to be careful when walking through it."

-

"That's Nick's old house." The Scarecrow isn't paying much attention to the surroundings, lost in thought, and it takes Dorothy's voice to pull him back to reality. There is the house, a small cottage really, still uninhabited, still standing, at the edge of the forest, and in perfect time, too. The sun is low in the western sky.

"We should stop here."

"Like last time?" Dorothy asks, voice gently teasing, and lets go of the Scarecrow's arm to walk inside the house. It's surprisingly clean, not smelling of dust or animals, and free of the small wild animals that inhabit the forest and the creepy-crawly creatures that tend to invade uninhabited places. "It even looks the same."

"It will be perfect to spend the night in," the Scarecrows announces, and closes the door to the outside world. They know there is no tin woodman in the forest this time, no cowardly lions waiting to try to scare them. They have all the time in the world.

Dorothy sets about to pulling things from the basket she carries; a blanket for them, to make the ground easier to sleep on, the cheese and bread, just in case they did not come across a place with a friendly housewife willing to feed and shelter them, and a single candle, guaranteed to burn the entirety of their journey, to provide light on the dark spring nights.

"Nothing seems to have changed much," the Scarecrow comments, over the bread and cheese and water pulled from the well outside. "The farmer who first made me is still there, the fields still growing, the meadows still as green and wide as I remember them being."

"It seems like so much should have changed, especially with everything that has happened to us." Dorothy thinks about the changes - the biggest of which, at least to her, is the Scarecrow's change. "But Oz is always going to be Oz."

"I'm thankful for that," the Scarecrow says, and laughs. "It makes the changes easier to handle."

"It's the rock we can all rest our feet on," Dorothy says, remembering something her aunt and uncle once said. The Scarecrow laughs in agreement, reaching out to pick up the remaining bread and cheese. He takes no shame in cleaning up, even sweeping the crumbs outside, while Dorothy pushes straw and leaves into a pile.

"Were I still stuffed, this would come in handy," the Scarecrow mentions, sitting down on the makeshift bed, folding a piece of the straw in his hands. "I always worried about not having enough straw. And fire."

"There are some advantages to being human."

"And some advantages to being a straw man." He waves Dorothy over, scoots over on the bed of straw and pulls the blanket up over them once she settles down. They think nothing of sleeping side by side: they are friends, first and foremost.  
-

Dorothy wakes up, unexpectedly. She doesn't know why she woke up, for the night is nowhere near over, the room still dark, except for the faint light cast by the candle. But then the Scarecrow shifts next to her, and she looks at him, sees his eyes staring back at her in the dim light. She understands nothing, but the heart knows when the mind doesn't comprehend, and her trembling hand reaching out to touch the Scarecrow's chin feels right.

"Dorothy," he whispers, and pulls her close to him, his lips finding hers. The kiss they share isn't the thing of romance novels, if Dorothy knew of romance novels, but awkward, clumsy, teeth bumping and lips shy, but sweet for all of that. Dorothy can feel her heart beating oddly in her chest, a flush rising over body, but nothing feels weird, wrong.

That first shiver the Scarecrow felt when Dorothy touched him, all those years ago, returns, full force, and an odd feeling settles low in his body once again. Those feelings are what drive him, something unusual for the Scarecrow. Emotions are not his forte, he leaves that to Nick Chopper, but reason flees as he continues to kiss Dorothy, and that too is right.

He pulls the sleeves of her dress down, trying not to rip anything in haste. He is moving as carefully as he can, almost afraid to touch her, until Dorothy whispers, "I'm not going to break," and arches against him, straining to get closer to him, her actions speaking louder than words.

If he were still stuffed with straw, the Scarecrow thinks, as he pushes into her body, he would fear this; something flares too hot between them, consuming like a fire, and threatening to burn him down to the ground. And when Dorothy gasps his name and shudders beneath him, the Scarecrow finds it is too late: the fires have already consumed him and sent him plunging over the edge into oblivion.

-

The Scarecrow hands Dorothy her stockings after mistaking them for his own hose, and watches as an embarrassed flush crosses her cheeks. He laughs and pulls her close.

"It feels like everything has changed again," Dorothy whispers against his chest, shivering beneath the Scarecrow's touch on her bare back; they have yet to get fully dressed.

"Everything changes, except Oz." The Scarecrow thinks back to their conversation the previous night.

"At least we'll have this."

The Scarecrow laughs again, and nods. "I think we should take this journey every year. It will be good to relive it."

To his surprise, Dorothy shakes her head, and grins up at him. "No. We'll save this for every ten years. There are other roads in Oz we can wander down."

-

"You're just on time." The Wizard is the first to greet the returning travelers, when they enter the palace. "Mr. Droit has just finished the potion. You can take it now, Scarecrow, if you'd like."

"I think," the Scarecrow begins, and glances at Dorothy, "that I don't need it right now."

  



End file.
